


Mystery, Mayhem, Murder... and Makeouts?

by Ambitious_Rubbish



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-01-29 09:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21407731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambitious_Rubbish/pseuds/Ambitious_Rubbish
Summary: He’s a rookie C-Sec officer investigating a murdered research scientist. She’s a Council Spectre tasked with bringing down a galaxy-spanning drug smuggling ring.They fight crime!(Ok, she fights crime. He follows her around, trying to not die.)
Relationships: Original Asari Character(s)/Original Male Human Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Original Prompt:** https://masseffectkink.dreamwidth.org/5105.html?thread=19390449#cmt19390449

She’d never had a lot of experience with humans – other than the fact that they looked unnervingly like her people – only not blue – except for that one time when a bunch of them had _painted_ themselves blue and gone around wiping the blue paint on other random people about the Citadel. And then gone off to fling themselves, naked (and blue,) down something they’d called a “Slip & Slide.”

That was actually how she’d met _him._

He’d been one of the C-Sec officers called in to handle that… unorthodox situation.

“You look like you’ve seen this kind of thing before,” she said, chuckling as he and his turian partner had hauled one of the last suspects off to a waiting patrol skimmer.

“Hmmm? No, not really. But it’s the Citadel. You kind of get used to the weirdness after a while.”

And that had been that. She’d promptly forgotten the incident and forgotten _him_ as she’d gone about the rest of her business that day. What was there to remember, anyway? It’d just been idle conversation – at least until she’d gone back to her rented apartment and found one of _those_ messages on her terminal: the kind with big exclamation points stamped all over the screen, and big, flashy, red warning letters saying things like “Disseminate this information and the Council will disseminate your molecules all over the station.” Couched in much more diplomatic terms, of course.

The attached files were filled to the brim with background information she’d need to carry out the assignment that had brought her to the station in the first place. And among those files was _his_ dossier.

She’d peeked into his file and right there at the top, had to be the absolute worst holo of a sentient being she’d ever seen. It was a disaster. Everyone knew the kind: taken during processing intake at the C-Sec Academy just before he’d started training. Awful lighting. Caught with his eyes closed and his mouth open. And it was a testament to the torpor of Citadel bureaucracy as well: there was almost certainly a much more recent (and less embarrassing) picture somewhere in C-Sec’s vast records, but of course nobody had bothered to get it appended to the file.

At any rate, she’d recognized him right away, though she almost didn’t. He was just so… nondescript. If there could ever be such a thing as “too plain,” or “too generic,” this poor bastard fit the description. He was of average height. Maybe a little on the lean and lanky side, but not enough to stand out. Dull brown hair, cropped short. That little scraggly stubble of beard that probably cost him more time and effort to keep shaven than he actually spent patrolling the station – and what was it with humans and their out-of-control foliage, anyway?

If there was one redeeming feature about his looks, it was his eyes. She remembered them actually being… kind of pretty. Now, they _were_ brown, and brown was such a boring, dreadful color. It was so awfully drab. So dreary. But even though they were brown, she could’ve sworn she’d seen a tiny twinkle in them that she couldn’t deny she’d found rather… endearing. Either that, or that twinkle might’ve just been… gas or something. Maybe he’d been eating at the krogan restaurant on the Presidium that’d gotten itself shut down for numerous health code violations. She wasn’t sure which of the two it was. Again: she’d never been particularly good with humans.

Regardless, she was curious now. She read on. According to the file, he’d been instrumental in the bust of a minor Red Sand dealer aboard the Citadel. Nothing that would ever make extranet-news – the idiot getting caught selling drugs in the restroom of a nightclub was hardly the sort of thing that trillions of sentient beings the galaxy over just _absolutely_ needed to know about – but C-Sec did want the guy’s supplier. Apparently the Council agreed; felt it was important enough to warrant actually assigning a Spectre to the job. Imagine that. Special Tactics & Reconnaissance – the Citadel Council’s absolute best and brightest – on Narco Trafficking duty.

Things must’ve been slow in the Traverse.

Still, while bringing down a drug smuggling ring might not have been the most glamorous use of her time, it certainly beat getting poked at by her combat instructors on Thessia. She’d played enough games of “Dodge the Pool of Acid” to last three asari lifetimes.

The plan was simple. Most of these types of plans were, actually. Usually because they were also impractically vague – along the lines of that old “Step 1: Do this, Step 2: “Something,” Step 3: Bad guy goes to jail” joke.

But then again, that was typical of Spectre-led operations. By their very nature, your average Spectre did absolutely nothing “by the book.” There was no procedure to follow, no conventions or protocol to worry about. It was all “seat of the pants” stuff – make it up as you go along. Liberating, in a way. Immensely frustrating in another. But still, as the old saying went, “Good work, if you can get it.”

In this case, Step 1 was to set herself up with a cover identity and infiltrate the Citadel. That had been… almost hilariously easy. With the number of people that actually lived here – at the seat of galactic government itself – and with the added number of people who were constantly transiting through to points far afield, it wasn’t at all difficult to blend in amongst the traffic. No one would notice yet one more asari moving into an overpriced, rundown apartment in the Lower Wards. No one would think to dig too deep into her prepared cover story and identity. And certainly, no one would expect that when a prominent biotech company with branch offices in one of the upper wards hired a new receptionist to sit at the front desk and look pretty, that they’d be getting someone so… drastically overqualified for the job.

Unfortunately, Step 1 had been the easy part. The rest got a little more complicated.


	2. Chapter 2

She was cranky. Like, really cranky. It was getting to the point where she was just about ready to snatch a random volus off the street and punt him off the highest balcony in the Presidium just to see how far he flew.

That was mean of her, she knew. She honestly didn’t have anything against volus in particular, but she’d never been overly fond of “people.” Turian, salarian, quarian, human… even other asari, it really didn’t matter. An individual person might be tolerable. “People...” were not.

Of course, most of her current irritation stemmed mostly from the fact that she’d been getting absolutely nowhere in her investigation. Getting hired on at Severide Biomimetics was supposed to give her a line into whoever had been supplying the Red Sand dealers aboard the Citadel, but finding the evidence she needed had been a lot harder than anyone had expected. The people backstopping her false identity couldn’t place her higher up the food chain. There were too many security screenings, and the background checks would be too in depth to risk that. So she’d been dumped in basically a menial position and expected to just find some way to make it work.

But even a Spectre couldn’t just magic herself the requisite security clearance or access cards, nor could they win their way into the confidences of the right people in only a few short weeks.

She needed a bit of luck. Catch the right break, and she could bust the whole case wide open.

That was when C-Sec started sniffing around Severide.

Granted, it wasn’t for the same reasons she was looking into them. She was trying to dismantle a drug distribution ring. She assumed they were chasing a corrupt executive embezzling funds, or maybe looking into some kind of corporate espionage. But it was nothing like that.

No, it was a homicide.

In most people’s eyes, murder was a big deal. After all, it meant someone was _dead._ But she’d seen more corpses than most medical examiners. Most hospital staffers. Certainly _made_ more of them than those people ever did. For her, murder… assassination… was a tool of the trade. Perhaps a sometimes distasteful one, but still a weapon in the arsenal that she couldn’t just ignore because it was sometimes… yucky.

But just because she could be so blasé about one of the research teams coming in for work one morning and finding their team leader dead – in his own lab, no less – didn’t mean that everyone else would be so disinterested. Dead bodies were just too much the sort of thing that tended to raise questions.

Which was why the building was now swarming with Citadel Security. They were poking their collective noses into everything. Officers in sharply creased uniforms would walk in, have a rummage in a few people’s desks, and then walk out carrying boxes full of datachips and other assorted detritus. A few others stood stern-faced by the doors, making sure the always inquisitive press and equally curious random looky-loos stayed far away from the crime scene.

She was at her own desk, quietly sipping a freshly brewed cup of Thessian Violet Tea from that lovely cafe two blocks away, when a young man walked up to her.

“Good morning, Miss.”

She looked up from her tea. It was _him_ – the C-Sec officer whose dossier she’d been poring over a few days back. The man sure got around. “It’s ‘morning,’” she replied dryly. “I’m not sure I’d call it ‘good.’ Certainly isn’t for Doctor Vrasic.”

Leron Vrasic was the unlucky salaraian researcher who’d been found dead on the floor of the Level 2 Gene-splicing lab, after someone had caved his skull in at some point during the evening.

The C-Sec officer grimaced, and she found herself wondering whether the squeamishness was because he was a rookie, or if it was just humans in general having weak stomachs. Either way, it didn’t really matter. “So, is there something I can help you with, Officer-”

“DeWitt. And yes, there is. Right now, we’re interviewing everyone-”

“You don’t think _I_ had anything to do with this horrible business, do you?” She stifled a smirk. Playing the “I’m offended at the mere thought you might be accusing me” angle came so naturally. And he certainly seemed to be buying it. It also helped that it was the Goddess’ honest truth. Here, at least, was one man she actually hadn’t killed.

To his credit, he didn’t seem fazed at her rather unsubtle attempt to deflect suspicion away from herself. Instead, he simply played it by the book. “I think everyone needs to be looked at carefully. I’m just doing my job, Miss.”

And this calling her ‘Miss’ business. As if she wasn’t at least five times his age. Hah. It was charming, actually, in an almost-but-not-quite-patronizing sort of way.

“Just like with that whole ‘Naked Slip & Slide’ thing?” She said, winking.

He drew back just a touch, a slightly befuddled expression springing instantly to his face. But then he made the connection, and a small smile touched his own lips as he nodded in comprehension. It was a funny thing, that smile. It was so… understated… and yet transformative at the same time. He would never be a holovid actor; that was clear, even given her limited experience with humans. He was just too plain. But there was something… appealing about that tiny smile. Full of warmth and even (strange, given the context of the moment) a little bit of cheer. And against her better judgment, she… well, she found she liked that.

“Uh, yeah… I suppose so. The things you see on this station, right?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

“Quite all right. Our last meeting didn’t exactly leave time for formal introductions.” She put on her most dazzling smile and was rather pleased to see a tiny hint of color scatter across his cheeks. She held out her hand. “Kessily T’rana.” The lies, the fake name, the fake backstory – all of it came almost naturally to her. It had better, she’d been practicing long enough. The information rattled around in her brain. Kessily T’rana, born on Thessia. Mother: V’reena T’rana. Father: Some turian mercenary. (Mother had been notoriously tight-lipped about “Dad’s” identity.) Older sister: Jisann. Younger sister: Lamira. She could recite the “facts” without skipping a beat. Might even have to at some point.

But for right now...

He took her hand, shook it.

“You can call me ‘Kes,’ if you like.” 

For a moment, he almost looked as if he wanted to take her up on her offer. But then, his smile dimmed just a hair, and he shook his head gently. “I’ll admit to being tempted, but we should probably keep things strictly professional. For the time being, at least. If that’s all right with you, Miss T’rana.”

She nodded, feeling just a shade of disappointment herself.

Wait… why _was_ that? She wasn’t… she wasn’t _really_ flirting with him, was she? She didn’t actually _want_ that kind of attention – not from him, anyway.

Right?

“Sure. ‘Officer DeWitt’ it is. And all right, for the record, I really don’t have anything to do with… with any of this.”

“Can I ask what you were doing between 0100 and 0400, station time?”

That was a delicate question. Because what she’d _actually_ been doing was hanging out in a dark alley behind a seedy dive bar, trying to avoid stepping in vomit, and waiting for the janitor who worked on the fifth floor of the Severide building to begin staggering his way home. And once he’d done that, she’d hacked into his omnitool with her own and made off with his access codes.

But she couldn’t exactly tell Officer DeWitt that.

“Nothing interesting, I’m afraid. I was asleep. I went to bed, maybe around 2330, was up at 0800 to get ready for my shift here.”

His lips pursed as he mulled that over. The fact that she wasn’t yet in handcuffs suggested he believed her. Or, well, maybe it didn’t. The investigation was still young, after all. No reason to be slapping bracelets on anyone this early. Better to gather more information, first.

But she certainly hoped he believed her. Becoming a person of interest in a murder investigation was not a good way to avoid official scrutiny. Still, whether or not he was buying her alibi, she wasn’t at all surprised at his next question. Again, it was procedure. And though she didn’t know him very well – or for very long – she was already getting the impression the man believed in being thorough.

“I don’t suppose there’s anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts at that time, is there?”

“Not really, no.”

“I didn’t think so.” He shrugged.

She knew how these things went. Sure, not having anyone who could confirm her alibi wasn’t exactly a good thing, but she also knew that they had no real reason to be seriously looking at her. There were always far more likely suspects to investigate and potentially rule out before anyone would start to suspect the _secretary_ for a crime like this one.

“One last thing: did you know the deceased?”

“Only to say hello when came in in the mornings. But no, the researchers usually keep to themselves.”

And that was that. He nodded, apparently satisfied, then politely excused himself and went off to go interview someone else. There were always tons of people to talk to, and never enough cops to do the interviewing.

And, really, that should have been the end of it. He had his investigation to attend to, she had hers, and never the two would meet.

Until, of course, they did.


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, C-Sec had been chasing their collective tails. They had every reason to think that their murder suspect had committed the crime for… mundane reasons. Perhaps there was a jealous lover somewhere in the mix. Perhaps someone, somewhere, owed another someone money. Really, there were very few murders that didn’t stem from some rather banal motive.

But the more she looked into things – the more she talked to people, the more she dug into the good doctor’s life – and, incidentally, the more she hacked into C-Sec’s systems and took a peek at their notes, the more she began to believe that the two cases were somehow linked. Now, what possible reason a respected research biologist like Vrasic could have for getting mixed up in a drugrunning ring, she couldn’t yet fathom. But the idea that he might have been killed _because_ of his involvement in such a dirty business? Well, that was looking less and less absurd by the minute.

And so she came to the conclusion that it would probably behoove her to… “have an in,” so to speak with Citadel Security. Sure, she could simply poke through their files just about any time she wanted, but as good as she was, every infiltration (in person or, in this case, digitally) carried with it some amount of detection risk. And minimizing risks was one of the things that every Spectre worth their salt tried to do.

So, really, what she chose to do next seemed like a perfectly obvious step.

At least, that’s what she told herself as she waltzed right in through the front door of C-Sec HQ and asked the Desk Sergeant if she could speak to one Officer Quinton DeWitt.

She was fully prepared to lie – say she was there about a case.

She didn’t need to. The turian manning the desk didn’t give a single, solitary damn about why she was there. Convenient, but also the kind of thing that made a woman worry. These were the people responsible for _security_ around here? No wonder there was a drug running operating right under their collective noses.

In any case, she’d seen him a few more times over the intervening days since that first, cursory interview. They’d exchanged polite greetings – she was, after all, at the desk by the door every time he came in to have a look at someone’s computer terminal or to help search an office. They hadn’t really done much “real” talking, but there were a few times when she’d caught him smiling slightly as he glanced her way.

So when the first thing out of her mouth when he came downstairs to meet her was “Would you like to have a cup of tea sometime?” well, he was taken aback. But not enough to turn her down.

“A cup of coffee? Sure.”

She’d said “tea,” but he’d apparently heard “coffee.” Apparently that was the human convention: “coffee.” She wasn’t sure why humans were so adamant in their defense of that particular beverage, but she’d sampled the detestable human… bean-water once before, and the experience left her utterly convinced her tongue would fall off.

Bah. The things she did in the name of galactic stability.


	4. Chapter 4

They met for coffee that afternoon. And at first, things were… well, to call it “awkward” would have been drastically understating things. She hadn’t been on a date in a long time. Not even a fake date. In her line of work, dating was a luxury very few got to indulge in. In fact, it’d been so long since she’d… “indulged,” that she’d almost forgotten what real dates were actually like – forgotten how real people, living real lives, managed to meet and grow close and all that stuff. She’d almost forgotten how to dress. How to act. How to make conversation with someone for more than five minutes straight without immediately switching to more familiar topics like guns, knives, and what was the best way to dispose of a dead drell.

She told herself that she couldn’t afford to screw this one up, or it might compromise her attempts to puzzle out the connection between the murdered scientist and the smuggling ring. And to be fair, that was actually something worth worrying about. But try as she might to deny it, there was also a part of her that was desperate to see this date succeed… because it was a date.

So they talked. They flirted. They laughed. And what should have been a “quick cup of whatever hot beverage one preferred” eventually became an early-evening meal at a cute and comfortable little restaurant just a short walk from where they’d spent their afternoon. The food was excellent, the wine sublime, and the conversation scintillating. Granted, he did most of the talking; she kept steering the conversation that way with questions about his family, his home, and his future aspirations. She’d intended, at first, to just keep from having to delve too deeply into her falsified background, but the longer they chatted, the more she found herself genuinely wanting to hear his answers.

His was a rather mundane story, but she found that charming. Hearing his little anecdotes about babysitting his sister’s newborn, or how he and his father used to “go fishing.” What the fascination was with sitting in a boat for hours on end to catch an animal for their supper, when they could easily have gone to a store if they needed food, she would probably never understand. But she was interested, nevertheless. Or perhaps that was simply the wine. The wine they’d imbibed far too much of.

And after their meal, there was the staggering back to her apartment. Her faked staggering, at any rate. In truth, it took a lot more than she’d actually consumed, to render her as sloppily drunk as she was pretending to be. But that, too, was part of the way the game was played. One of the pillars of tradecraft. Of crafting that image of being more vulnerable than she actually was. She may not have needed an escort, but the fact that he’d provided one?

Well, how gentlemanly.

She was actually tempted to invite him up. Never mind the risks of him stumbling across something in her apartment that would blow her cover. Never mind that it was always a poor idea to get too involved with a potential field asset. She still likely would have done it – except he didn’t look like he would have accepted the offer even if she’d extended it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, or that he hadn’t enjoyed his time with her. In fact, her impression was that it was the exact opposite. She’d been charming, personable – all things the real her wasn’t – and she had no doubt in her mind that part of him very much hoped for such an invitation. But reading people was a necessary skill for someone in her line of work, and she could already read him pretty easily. As much as he might have been tempted, he was not about to risk moving too quickly too soon and potentially ruining what he was treating as the best thing that’d happened to him in a long time.

She was flattered. She was _immensely_ flattered, actually. And more than that, she was impressed by the polite and smooth way he excused himself for the evening, at the way he’d almost shyly asked if he could see her again.

She said “yes,” of course. And if things had stopped there, she would have been content with that.

But no… he’d leaned in and given her a kiss on the cheek. Friendly. Affectionate. Not at all too forward. It was perfect.

And she was tempted to bang her head against the wall until her stomach quit doing the little flip-flops it had seen fit to start in on. No wonder people who did what she did tended to not date. Pulling 10Gs on a combat drop and having one’s brains forcibly shoved into one’s feet was an infinitely more preferable sensation than that little back and forth shimmy her innards were now doing.

She wanted it to stop. _Needed_ it to stop.

So, of course it didn’t.

Damn it, she hadn’t meant to start liking him so much. So how in the hell had it happened?


	5. Chapter 5

Yes, it was official. She liked him. She really did. And she really hadn’t meant to. He was… a means to an end. An “asset.” He was a source of information, a means of cementing her cover identity more firmly, and he was expendable. If she needed to burn him in order to keep herself from being discovered or her mission from being compromised, then she would just have to do that.

Although now she was questioning whether she actually could if it came down to it. To her, he wasn’t just an asset. Not anymore. Because over the next few days – days which had turned into weeks – after they’d had that first cup of coffee together, they’d spent quite a bit of time in each other’s company. His investigation into the scientist’s murder still occasionally brought him to her building, but more and more, if he showed up at her desk, it wasn’t for anything related to the case, but for something more personal. Sometimes he would even bring her a freshly brewed cup of her favorite tea.

Now she’d never lost sight of her ultimate objective – sometimes, when they met for dinner, she’d ask him about his day, and slowly – carefully enough that he wouldn’t notice – she’d talk him around to giving up details about his investigation. Possible leads, tidbits of info from the forensic specialists. She’d quickly concluded that he might’ve been a rookie, but he had a wealth of potential. He was bright, inquisitive, and honestly, more clever than a lot of C-Sec’s more “experienced” officers. He was close, she wagered, to finding that critical lead that would crack the case wide open.

And when he did, she planned to be there to follow up.

Things were looking up. Any day now, he’d probably have a suspect. And as she’d told herself all this time, his suspect would probably also be hers. They were both well on their way to solving their respective puzzles.

Which, of course, is why the universe decided it was well past time to kick them both in the teeth.

\-----

Sharik Brusk. Krogan. Loan shark. Bookkeeper. General, all-around prick.

And, unfortunately, not responsible for the murder of Leron Vrasic.

She dusted herself off. This whole spy business really wasn’t very much like it was in the holos. If this were a vid, she’d have dropped out of that air vent as fresh as a daisy (whatever that was,) and looking glamorous for the cameras. In reality, little clumps of dust and grit and other… unsavory substances she knew had no business being in a conduit that supplied the stuff people _breathed,_ but was present anyway, remained stuck to her clothing no matter how hard she tried to brush them off.

At one point in her little adventure, she’d navigated herself down the wrong branch of ductwork and found herself peering into a locker room (Yuck,) instead of the office she’d been looking for. She’d tried to turn around in the tight quarters, only to put her elbow into a puddle of some kind of foul-smelling liquid. The stuff reeked so terribly, she wanted to jam the point of her knife into her nostrils if only it would mean she wouldn’t have to suffer that horrific stench any longer.

But leaving aside all those setbacks, she’d gotten what she needed: a good, long look at Brusk’s files. There was, unsurprisingly, incriminating material aplenty. Money laundering, bribery, all manner of juicy stuff. But nothing that tied him to Vrasic’s murder. She’d made copies of all that data, regardless, and some time tomorrow morning, whatever C-Sec detective was manning the Organized Crime desk would check in to find a little data chit packed with everything they needed to toss Brusk into a cell forever.

She might be no closer to completing her primary objective, but she still considered this a good night’s work.

And it was time to celebrate.

Quinton had promised to make her dinner.

He was a terrible cook, with no grasp of subtlety, or the nuances of different flavors. The extent of his understanding when it came to “seasoning” was drowning a piece of food in a liter of ketchup. Any meal he prepared, she was one hundred percent certain, would be akin to heading down to the Docks and licking random surfaces until she rendered herself unconscious.

But he tried so hard.

And every time he cooked for her, he would present his efforts like a happy but imbecilic pet would present its “work” after having relieved itself on the carpet.

Damn it all, he really needed to stop being so cute.

She smiled to herself, anyway. She was expecting a nice, quiet evening. They’d probably start with take-out from that new asari restaurant a couple of blocks away from his apartment – they certainly wouldn’t be able to eat what he’d actually cooked, of course – and that would probably be followed by a little bit of cuddling on his sofa as they tore through his collection of chintzy action vids. And after that… bed. Not “sleep,” mind you, but bed.

She was looking forward to it. So much so, in fact, that she almost didn’t notice the dozen or so men keeping watch over his building.

She muttered to herself as she saw the oversized pistol badly concealed in one man’s jacket pocket.

“Shit.”


	6. Chapter 6

She wasn’t sure if they were after her or him. It could be either. And really, it didn’t matter. These guys crowding around Quinton’s building did not look like the type who grasped the concept of “finesse.” These were not the kind of people one hired if they were looking for precision or stealth. She estimated she had maybe a couple of minutes at most, before they’d be through the building’s front door, up the stairs, and kicking down the door to DeWitt’s apartment.

She couldn’t let that happen.

For lots of reasons.

She had to work fast. Right now, they still seemed to be getting their bearings. Surrounding the building, looking for alternative ways in, setting guards to make sure nobody would slip away in the commotion. A pair of them, dressed in dark clothing, drifted off down the side alley.

Poor bastards. They were dead men, and they didn’t even know it.

The street was poorly lit – no real surprise in this area of the Wards, and she was able to keep to the shadows as she closed the distance to her targets. She stayed low to the ground, keeping out of the line of sight of the main bulk of the hit squad. Carefully, and as quietly as she could, she trailed those two men down the alleyway, her footsteps barely audible despite having to hurry to catch up with them. Eventually, they stopped in front of a little used door.

She was vaguely familiar with it – it led into a series of service corridors, as well as rooms dedicated to building maintenance and other support services. They were certainly being thorough covering all the exits like this, but breaking off from the rest of their unit the way they had? That had been a terrible mistake.

The first man caught her knife across his throat. A quick and clean cut that laid him low so quickly, he never knew what hit him. The body thudded to the ground, drawing the attention of his partner, but she was already on him, plunging her blade into his chest – into his heart – as he whirled around.

He went down with little more than a faint rasp.

She grimaced. Messy.

Necessary, but messy.

She wasn’t sure how long it would be before the rest of the team began scouring the building. She’d heard no loud sounds, no gunfire, so she could only assume that they’d perhaps just begun their search. And that they were surprisingly trying to keep their entry as quiet as possible. If they were at least making an _attempt_ to be subtle, that would give her more time to get upstairs. To prepare a defense.

She bolted for the stairs.

One flight up. Two. Three. She made it to the fourth floor in no time at all. It was still quiet up here. But it wouldn’t be for long. She could only hope that no one else on the floor was home. And that if they were, they’d keep their heads down when things started getting loud.

His door was closed. Well, of course it was. And she didn’t have an access key. (They hadn’t known each other _that_ long.) She didn’t bother with the doorbell, either. He had music on in there – loud enough that she could hear it through the door, which meant he just might not hear her buzzing. No, her way would be faster.

Her omnitool cut through the rather pitiful door security in no time at all, and she slipped through the newly opened door as it whispered open in front of her.

“Kes? That you, hon?”

His voice was coming from the kitchen. As if she couldn’t tell. There was a faint hint of smoke in the air, and she could definitely smell _something_ burning.

She rushed to the kitchen. The oven was open, and he was in the middle of sliding a pan out from inside of it. Resting on the pan was a sad, blackened little husk of what might once have been some kind of animal, but was now little more than a hardened deposit of carbon.

“Oh, hey… I think I overcooked the chicken.”

She wanted to comment on that, but there was no time. “Where’s your gun?”

He set the pan down on the nearby counter and, with his teeth, pulled off the two comically oversized oven gloves he’d been wearing. “My what?”

She let out a brief, frustrated sigh. “Babe, you gotta listen to me. There are ten armed men about to burst through that door and kill the both of us. _Get. Your. Weapon._”

His expression was a blend of shock and confusion, but he ducked into the other room, anyway, reemerging almost immediately with his service weapon clenched in his right hand. He made sure it was loaded and then looked up at her, still bewildered. “What’s going on?”

“I saw some guys surrounding the building. I don’t know if they’re after you or after me.”

“… why would they be after-”

“You really want to talk about this _now?_”

“Ok. Never mind. But… but what do we do? I can… I can call in a tac team-” He started to bring his omnitool up.

“Will they be here in less than thirty seconds?”

“… no?”

“Then you probably shouldn’t bother. Listen, just get behind the counter over there-”

“Wait, where are _you_ going?!”

“Where do you think? Look, you see anyone moving that isn’t me? Shoot them.”


	7. Chapter 7

She promised herself she’d apologize to him.

Assuming, of course, they survived this.

And that was actually a little in doubt. She wouldn’t lie to herself, she was worried. Less for herself – she was extremely well trained – and more for him. Quinton was a smart cop. Clever. Resourceful. Dedicated. All good qualities for someone in his profession to have. But he was also much more… cerebral, than she was. He preferred to think his way through problems. She preferred to shoot, stab, strangle, or bludgeon her problems. Or, situation permitting, hurl them against walls with biotics. Thing is, she knew that she should be more… subtle about such matters – that using her brains instead of her various implements of death and wanton destruction was often the better idea. And the truth was, she very much respected Quinton’s approach to… volatile situations. Nine times out of ten, his methods tended to work. And someone who got the results he did, as often as he did, was on the fast track to a Detective’s Badge. Of course she respected that. It was just that right now, what they both needed was a fighter. A scrapper. Someone who wouldn’t mind getting their hands dirty. Someone who could explode a man’s face with a ferro-nickel slug fired at extremely high velocity, and not so much as bat an eye.

She wasn’t sure he was up for that.

To be truthful, she wasn’t sure he could handle a straight-up shootout with even one of these goons. So a dozen? Oh, yes, she was definitely worried. In fact, there was a part of her – a part of her that she didn’t really care to listen to right now – that was obsessing over just how things might have shaken out if she hadn’t been here. If this team of wannabe assassins had stumbled across him without her to protect him.

Hmph. “Protect him.” That did sound a little patronizing, didn’t it? Maybe _true,_ but still a little patronizing. But whatever the case, she really, really, _really_ didn’t want to be thinking about this. So she stopped. It wasn’t like she really had the time to be navel-gazing like this, anyway. There were far more important things to be doing with the limited number of seconds she had available.

Like, for example, grouse about her armaments. She sighed as she instinctively checked her pistol again. By the Goddess, she hated the Carnifex. It was ugly. Brutish. And while it had more stopping power than a stampeding elcor, its ammunition magazine was tiny, it was absurdly heavy, and the recoil could easily break the wrist of an untrained operator if they weren’t careful. Hell, it could break _her_ wrist if she wasn’t careful, and shattered joints aside, that recoil was an enormous liability. Now, there were shooters who actually favored the Carnifex, and those who did swore by its ability to put down just about any target in a single, well-placed shot. Maybe two shots for something like an exceedingly stubborn krogan. But those same people also realized that your standard, stock-model Carnifex was just about useless in a crowd situation.

Which this was.

No, what she really needed was something more compact – easier to handle. And if she’d had her way, she’d have picked up that new model Elanus had just put on the market. Unfortunately, she couldn’t have her way. Not with this. And that was because the behemoth in her hand was _the_ gun on every two-credit thug’s wishlist. Yes, it was enormous, yes, it was unwieldy; it was also intimidating enough to cause incontinence problems in the vast majority of sentient beings. If she wanted to blend in – if she didn’t want anyone catching on that an elite, covert assassin was operating right here on the Citadel, going around killing off crime lords and their lackeys, she needed to make like the locals.

And that was a shame. Her way would have been much more… tidy.

Oh well.

She mulled over the tactical situation. Fighting inside the apartment seemed like a terrible idea. Really, her only significant advantage was maneuverability, and tight quarters meant very little of that. On the other hand, she’d have even less mobility out in the hall, and at least if they had to come in through the front door, she could “funnel” them. Slowing down their entry, straining their ability to support each other in the fight – these could be critical factors in determining who lived and who died.

Obviously, she wanted to live.

She flicked the lights off. The dark would give her yet another advantage. Hopefully it’d be enough.

And that was it. She was out of time to prepare. The apartment door slid aside, and the first thug burst through the doorway, expecting to find their targets hopelessly unprepared for an attack.

She didn’t hesitate. She put a bullet between his eyes.

And all hell broke loose.

That was hardly surprising. She was pretty sure the sound of her pistol firing could be heard all the way back on Thessia. Worse, there was no disguising where the shot had come from. She might as well have been standing there with a glow lamp in each hand, waving like an idiot.

For their part, the assassins hadn’t really been expecting to encounter heavy resistance, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t – at least in some way – prepared for it. Their hopes for doing things “quietly” having gone down the proverbial tubes, they returned fire through the doorway. And they weren’t shy about it, either. A veritable hailstorm of bullets sprayed against the walls behind her. Several more smacked into the ground just a meter or two short of her position.

She’d taken cover at the point where the corridor leading to the bed and bathrooms branched into the living area. The walls were thin, but so far they were proving tough enough to stop bullets. She hoped that would stay true.

Little by little, the incoming fire began to slack off. And then it cut out entirely, leaving a few moments of eerie silence punctuated only by the occasional click, snap, or hiss as the mercs reloaded their weapons.

Now was the time. She had to do something.

She leaned out just far enough to get a quick look at the apartment door. There, huddling just to the side of the door frame was one of the hitmen. He was crouched, maybe even kneeling. She couldn’t see him too clearly, just the occasional glimpse of an elbow or a knee, but enough to give her a rough idea of his position. He, too, was sticking close to the wall, hoping it’d be enough to protect him.

It might have, too, if he hadn’t been so sloppy about it.

She took aim, fired one round.

The man screamed in agony as the shot turned his lower leg into shredded meat. He collapsed, falling into the doorway, clutching at his ruined limb, and giving her a clean shot.

He stopped screaming when she put a bullet in his head.

Two down. Eight to go.

These assassins trying to get to her may not have been the most skilled combatants she’d ever encountered, but they weren’t completely stupid, either. They’d lost two of their number and quickly realized that charging in blindly wasn’t going to get them anywhere but dead. She could hear them arguing in fierce whispers about what to do next. Anyone trying to get through that door without adequate support would just catch a bullet, but at the same time, they couldn’t wait around forever. Someone must have called C-Sec the moment the bullets started flying. Friendly reinforcements were probably on the way already. The gunmen still had a small window to make a decision: write the whole business off. They’d be going home empty-handed, but at least they’d _be_ alive to go home. Or, they could rush her. Hope to hell that sheer numbers would do the trick. Hope that they could _make_ something happen.

They picked Option #2.

Another savage burst of gunfire forced her to pull her head back. Hunker down. While she waited for the storm to abate, she watched with a mixture of befuddlement and amusement as a piece of Quinton’s weird wall art got cut to ribbons by weapons fire. She never had understood what he found so intriguing about small, furry animals hanging from tree branches. And there was some kind of slogan underneath the image which she’d never been all that interested in reading. And now she’d never get the opportunity.

Regardless, she imagined he wouldn’t take the destruction of his decorations all that well.

During a break in the shooting, she leaned out again; caught sight of two more gunmen making a break through the doorway.

Again, they were just a little smarter than she’d initially given them credit for. Suppress, then advance. Oldest trick in the book, but it worked.

Well, mostly.

She had just enough time to squeeze off another shot. She didn’t have much time to _aim_ it, however, and she just barely caught her target in the shoulder. Still, the damned _cannon_ she was firing had enough power to turn even a glancing hit or a graze into a sledgehammer blow that knocked her attacker to the ground. The man wailed, rolling on the ground as he cradled his mangled arm.

She fired another shot. Cut _that_ short.

The fourth gunman, however, fared quite a bit better. He’d made it into the living room proper in one frantic dash, then flung himself behind the couch. Only his hand rose above the couch as he blindly emptied his ammunition magazine into the room. Again, it wasn’t the most innovative of tactics, and again, it was sorely lacking in finesse.

But again, it worked.

She snarled as a near-miss glanced off the wall she was using for protection, sending sparks flying dangerously close to her eyes. She couldn’t afford to let the enemy get a good beachhead. If they managed to secure enough good places to shoot from, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

She weighed her options. There weren’t many, and she didn’t really like any of them.

Still, there was an old asari saying: “You have to risk, to win,” was probably the closest English translation. Really, the concept itself was as old as time. Every civilized race had a variant of it, she was sure. The problem was that it was one of those ideas that was… poorly represented in the collective consciousness. People loved drama. And so, everyone remembered when sheer audacity won the day. Nobody remembered when it got a stupid person killed for being stupid.

The hell with it.

She waited for another lull in the gunfire.

And then she charged.

Running right into the proverbial jaws of death. It was bold, all right. It was also idiotic. Ludicrous. Probably suicidal.

And for a second, the mercs were so utterly bewildered by it, that they didn’t know what to do.

She only needed a second.

One of the gunmen recovered his wits and snapped off a shot at her. A round cracked past her left ear. By then, though, she had the coffee table on its side, and had ducked behind it. It was heavy for something so simple, but that was human aesthetics for you. Absolutely no concept of either form or function. It looked like something vomited out by a particularly old and broken down industrial fabricator – an almost completely solid metal block with tiny, stubby legs and a few knobs poking out here and there, attempting to pass as “ornamentation.”

Whatever. She wasn’t interested in its looks. She was interested in whether it would stop gunfire.

Turns out it did.

Good enough.

She dumped an entire clip out into the hallway, and was busy reloading when the mercenaries outside attempted another push. Once more they laid down a wall of fire, hoping to force her into hiding long enough for them to barge their way in. But she had a better angle on the doorway this time. The fifth man dropped in a heap right in the egress itself as she took him cleanly in the head. The sixth attacker tripped over his fallen comrade and stumbled right into her line of fire.

She didn’t even blink as she put two in his chest.

And that was enough for the remaining four. Whatever taste they might have had for a fight was gone. The smartest one of them turned and ran. She guessed he got about as far as halfway to the staircase before his compatriots decided that he had the right idea and took off after him.

That just left the one gunman hiding behind the couch. She could hear him swearing up a blue streak at the cowards that had abandoned him.

Her biotics sent that couch flying. Sent him flying right along with it. He slammed backwards into a nearby wall and slumped to the floor. The couch fell on top of him, pinning him in place. He saw her advancing on him and reached for his fallen gun.

She turned his hand into pulped meat.

“Try that again, and the next one goes in your eye.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.


	8. Chapter 8

It looked like a bomb had gone off in there.

Well, all right, no, it didn’t look like a bomb had gone off in there, it looked like there’d been a massive gunfight in there. Which, of course, was true.

And now came the unenviable task of having to clean it all up. Not to mention figuring out just what the hell had happened in the first place, or _why_ it’d happened.

C-Sec had pulled out all the stops for this one. There was a tactical team in full kit down in the building lobby, doing what tactical operatives everywhere in the galaxy tended to do: that is to say, looking mean and growling at anyone stupid enough to get too close.

Then there were the police skimmers that had fanned out in all directions from the apartment building. They were looking for the surviving members of the assassination team, of course.

They wouldn’t find them.

That wasn’t an insult; she had a healthy respect for Citadel Security. She thought of them as a top-notch outfit. But she also knew that no matter how many sets of eyes they had out there scouring the Wards, they’d come up with nothing. The Citadel’s Wards were a maze of tunnels and warrens. Far too easy a place for someone to get themselves lost in if that was what they wanted.

And it would be. Professional hitmen who failed to kill their targets tended not to live long. These guys would be on the run, not just from law enforcement but from whoever it was who’d hired them. Finding them would be like… what was that human saying? Something about needles and piles of dried straw?

She was so terrible with human idioms.

At any rate, the building was secure. Search parties were combing the streets. That left one angle to examine. Even now, the gunman she’d captured was being interrogated.

Unfortunately, not by her.

Captain Jonas Richter was the leader of Quentin’s unit. He was tough as nails, and had been in law enforcement for pretty much his entire adult life. This was far from his first time “sweating” a perp. She was sure that this rent-a-thug would spill everything he knew.

Eventually.

And that was the problem. Time was of the essence. Time was always of the essence, and as good as she believed Richter to be, she wasn’t sure he’d get the info they needed fast enough. She, on the other hand, could do the job a lot quicker. The only problem was that it’d likely be a lot messier, too, and it had promptly been decided (without her input, of course) that that was out of the question.

And so she was stuck watching. Watching as the two C-Sec officers grilled their suspect. Now, all things being fair and what-not, Quinton probably shouldn’t have been participating, either. This whole ugly business was rife with things like “personal bias” and “conflict of interest.” That wasn’t something she as a Spectre gave all that much of a damn about, but C-Sec should.

But maybe the rules got relaxed a little when it was a cop’s apartment getting shot up by cut-rate hitmen.

She felt for him. Everything he had – gone. All of it, just gone. The art he’d once had on his walls? Charred. Torn. Riddled with bullet holes. The couch was a lost cause. It’d given its life in the service of the gods of ballistic protection. She could only hope it would be well rewarded in whatever passed for a furniture afterlife. Not even the kitchen had been spared. The chicken was still sitting in its roasting pan on the kitchen counter, but it was thoroughly ruined. Of course, it’d been ruined even before it’d been shredded by stray gunfire, but that was just being nitpicky.

The bedroom was a disaster area, too. The mattress she’d found sinfully comfortable – more holes now than stuffing. Those lavish sheets she’d liked so much – expertly woven out of silk from her homeworld – now just sad tatters and scraps.

There was just so much damage – a life’s worth. _His_ life’s worth. It might’ve been a slightly run-down apartment in an equally rundown part of town, but it was Quin’s _home._ He’d filled it with souvenirs. Filled it with memories.

And now there was nothing left.

And it was her fault.

The thing was that part of her just didn’t _get_ why this should be such a big deal. In her line of work, there wasn’t really any such thing as “home.” “Home” was wherever the next assignment was. It could be a filthy berth on a longhaul freighter running preserved foodstuffs out to the Attican Traverse. It could be a luxury apartment on Illium. It could be a filthy hovel on Omega or a ramshackle hut in some Sur’Kesh jungle. To her and others like her, “home” was an eternally nebulous concept. It wasn’t so much a place as it was a state of mind. And because “home” didn’t matter much to her, it’d never occurred to her to spend her time navel-gazing about other people’s homes. Worrying about every little bit of collateral damage she’d left in her wake on her various missions – that was the kind of thinking that would eat at you if you let it. The kind of thing that would drive a person insane. And so her instructors had always told her never to get close. To always stay detached.

How was she supposed to do that now?

Because right now, she was feeling awfully guilty.

It was a new and unusual sensation.

She hated it.

But perhaps what she hated even more was that she couldn’t even really tell him how she actually felt. That she felt terrible about what had happened to his apartment, that she felt worse about how she’d led him on. That she’d hated lying to him about who she was and what she was, or that she hated even more how easily those lies had come.

And maybe, worst of all, she hated the idea that even if she were to confess everything – every last little thing she’d done wrong – he wouldn’t believe a word of it. Not now. Not after this.

Damn it all.

The interrogation was getting just a little bit more animated now. She was too far away to listen in – Richter wasn’t taking any chances – but there was finger pointing, there was arm waving, and there was their prisoner – securely handcuffed to the one chair that had survived the devastation. Said prisoner was even now desperately trying to explain himself. At least, that’s what he wanted his interrogators to believe. She might not have been able to actually hear the words coming out of his mouth, but even from here she could smell the bullshit. It was a valiant effort, she had to give him credit for that, but it was obvious the man was a terrible liar, and all his talking was accomplishing was to make his captors even angrier.

She could feel the tension in the room building. It was thick and heavy, and for one brief, unsettling moment, she was sure something… dramatic… was about to happen. Screaming, possibly. More likely, though, a punch or two to the face.

But nothing like that came to pass.

She was almost disappointed. It wasn’t that she was particularly interested in seeing some two-credit punk get roughed up a little, it was just that she didn’t see any particular need to _avoid_ that outcome, either. She’d learned long ago that at times like these, it just wasn’t… practical… to empathize with a prisoner, or to show them mercy. They had information, and if it was your job to get that information, you did what was necessary. One didn’t offer sympathy to an omnitool’s flash memory chip, or feel badly for a mistreated datapad. Why should this be any different?

And, she supposed, that was what separated her from someone like Quin.

His anger was impossible to miss. His hands were clenched into fists. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were peeled back in a wicked snarl. She’d never seen him like this before – never even suspected he had a single hateful bone in his body. But there was no denying that right now, he was out for blood. And she couldn’t blame him. Someone had tried to kill him. He didn’t know who; he didn’t know why. He had every reason to want to hurt someone right now, and even though she understood, it still unnerved her all the same.

Except that was as far as it went. The frigid glare, the raised voice… that was it. If she’d been conducting the interrogation, this goon would probably be missing a few teeth by now. Maybe even his fingernails.

But not Quinton. He never laid a hand on his suspect.

He didn’t need to.

She envied him a little. C-Sec was all about rules and regulations. You almost couldn’t breathe without having to clear it with someone first. She knew that life wasn’t for her. She abhorred bureaucracy, couldn’t stand all the red tape that came with it. It all just got in the way, stood in the path of producing real results. And yet, there was a part of her that had to admit that maybe there was good reason for all that – that doing things her way – without restrictions, without _safeguards_ – it just got _tiring._ Put too many miles on the soul.

And anyway, this time, the “soft touch” had apparently worked. The prisoner had stopped speaking. His head was down, his chin resting on his chest. But Quin and Richter had taken a few steps back, and were engaged in a pretty… animated discussion. The gunman must’ve talked, must’ve spilled something juicy. That was the only explanation for all the gesturing and the glances in her direction. Normally, public scrutiny wasn’t something that fazed her too much. People liked to stare, but it didn’t have to mean anything. This time, though, she knew they were talking about her. The way they’d turn their heads to look while trying to make it look like they weren’t looking.

She didn’t like it; it made her nervous. And yes, even an experienced covert operative like her got nervous from time to time.

Most of them didn’t fidget, though. Flex their fingers, constantly shift their weight from one foot to another. But that was what she was doing. That was how much this whole business had rattled her. Yet again, she was a little out of her comfort zone and finding she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

But eventually, the two men stopped talking. And then they turned once more, almost in unison, to look at her.

Clearly, some kind of consensus had been reached.

That could be good.

Or it could be bad.

She was leaning towards “bad.”

This was a screw-up of epic proportions. Spectres were supposed to be subtle tools – scalpels, not swords, and it spoke rather poorly of her that her attempts at being subtle had failed so disastrously. Someone was going to have to pay for this mistake. No surprise whose head was likely to be first on the chopping block.

The Council might be willing to give her another chance, but only if she could clean up the mess she’d made. That was a pretty big “if.” But C-Sec, in the form of one Captain Jonas Richter, would want their pound of flesh as well. For risking the lives of innocent civilians by starting a firefight in the middle of a residential sector. For not keeping Citadel Security apprised of her actions here on the station. For sleeping with a C-Sec officer.

She was actually inclined to believe that last one would be viewed as the worst offense of the lot.

Just like that she’d gone from badass secret agent, answerable to no one but herself, to a varren’s favorite chew toy.

And yet she was really starting to think that catching all kinds of hell from every last important personage in Citadel space was preferable to having a certain conversation with a certain human male.

“You could’ve told me.” She hadn’t even noticed him walking up to stand beside her.

Blast. It seemed that conversation she’d been dreading was going to be happening a lot sooner than she’d expected.

“Told you what? The _truth?_”

How patently absurd.

“At least some of it. I understand you can’t talk about all the Spectre stuff. That it’s all supposed to be ultra-top-secret, I-could-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you.”

“Why would I tell you just to kill you right after?”

“It’s a line from- never mind.” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair in a gesture she’d… well, that she’d always found rather endearing. “Look, Kes-” He stopped short and she just barely managed to keep a lid on the frown that threatened to cross her face. “ ‘Kessily’ isn’t even your real name, is it?”

She shook her head.

“Unbelievable.”

“I’m a spy, Quinton. I can’t exactly go around telling people my real name when I’m on assignment.”

“James Bond does.”

“Who-”

He stared incredulously at her for a long, hard moment before throwing his hands up in frustration. “Never mind!”

“You keep making weird human references I don’t understand!” she snarled back.

“Blasto, then. Everyone knows Blasto’s real name. It’s ‘Blasto!’”

“Blasto is a big, stupid jellyfish.”

His eyes widened and he jabbed a finger at her, stopping just short of poking her in her right breast. “You take that back.”

She put her hands on her hips and shot him an annoyed glare. “I will not. Blasto is so overrated. _I_ could kick Blasto’s ass.”

“Oh yeah? How? Hanar don’t _have_ asses.”

Ok, that was actually not a bad point. “Well… his manubrium, then.”

He deflated almost immediately. “His… his what?”

“It’s the part of the jellyfish with… um… with the butthole.”

He stared blankly at her.

“What? I took a xenobiology elective when I was an undergrad.”

“How did this conversation get so weird?”

“… I don’t know. But it’s giving me a headache.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I think… I think we should probably table this discussion for the time being, yeah?”

“You’re probably right.”

“And I should… well, I should see about completing the mission I was sent here to do in the first place. So… I’m just going to-” She hitched a thumb over her shoulder.

He winced. “Um, yeah, about that...”

She cocked her head to the side and gave him an appraising look. “I’m not going to like what you have to say next, am I?”

“So, Captain Richter’s not exactly thrilled about the idea of you running around the station without-”

“Quin, I do not need a babysitter.”

“He seems to think you do. Or, well, I guess it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t trust you without one.” There was a long, awkward pause before he continued. “Actually, it’d be even more accurate than that to say that he doesn’t trust you, period.”

She shrugged. “Eh. I’m used to that. So who’s the poor son of a bitch he’s assigning to try and keep tabs on me?” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Don’t say it’s you.”

“Ok, I won’t. But it is.”

“Are you shitting me right now?”

“Hey, how do you think _I_ feel? It’s not like I’m thrilled about it, either. My girlfriend plays me for a fool, and then my boss tells me I have to follow her around to make sure she doesn’t blow up half the station when nobody’s looking. I don’t even know your real name, for crying out loud! And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is?”

“Richter didn’t tell you?”

“Oh, he’s read your dossier. You know, all of the bits that weren’t covered in black ink. But he’s not being forthcoming about any of it. I guess he doesn’t want to wreck your cover any more than it already has been.”

“How unexpectedly gregarious of him.”

“Funny.”

“But seriously, I gotta ask, why did he choose you for this? I mean, like you just said, I did do a pretty good job keeping you in the dark about everything.”

“Thanks for being diplomatic about all this.”

“I’m just saying-”

“Well, don’t.” He sighed in exasperation. “Apparently, the Captain is a firm believer in the principle of ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...’” He trailed off.

“ ‘Fool me twice…’ what? What’s the next part?”

“Are you serious-”

“This is another of those weird bits of ‘folksy’ human wisdom that I don’t understand at all, isn’t it?”

“The saying is ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’ Ok?”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m a professional spy. If I wanted to fool you again, it wouldn’t exactly be difficult.”

“You are a really awful person.”

“I’m just being honest – which, you know, is kind of unusual for me. I mean, I’ve been _trained_ in how to lie convincingly.”

“Fine. Whatever. Point is, you’ll just have to behave yourself when I’m around so I don’t get into any more trouble.” He bit his tongue to try and stop the words from coming out of his mouth. It galled even him how imbecilic he sounded at that exact moment.

She knew it was rude. Knew it was cruel, even. But she couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “I wouldn’t put money on that.”

“No, I didn’t think so, either,” he said with another irritated sigh. “I’m going to be so fired.”


	9. Chapter 9

She’d made the mistake of thinking things couldn’t get any stranger. Under normal circumstances, she’d likely have been right. But that was just the trick, wasn’t it? These weren’t normal circumstances. This was about as far from “normal circumstances” as it was possible to get. So of course things were going to get weirder. She should have known better. There was an old asari proverb about how the more complicated the battle plan, the more spectacularly it would disintegrate upon the commencement of battle.

It was an old soldier’s adage, and like a lot of soldier-y wisdom, it tended to apply to more than just war and combat.

And that was why she was miserable.

Well, maybe not “miserable,” exactly, but she was having a hard time finding a word to adequately describe the conflicting sensations of wonder at being surprised yet again, disgusted with herself at being surprised yet again, and annoyed at the universe for surprising her. Yet again.

If she weren’t so completely exhausted, she might just have had some choice words to share with the universe. Not many – only two words, actually. And seven letters. Three of them were “F”s.

As it was, she found herself just shaking her head at her current situation. Shaking her head in a sort of resigned, weary surrender to the madness that was, once again, taking over her entire world.

“Oh, God, your fridge is disgusting.”

“Why are you looking in my refrigerator?”

“There’s nothing else to do in this stupid safehouse of yours.”

“It’s a _safehouse,_ Quinton. It’s not a luxury hotel.”

“Just because it’s a safehouse doesn’t mean it has to be empty and boring.”

“Do you not understand the _concept_ of safehouses? Nobody is supposed to know about them! You can’t exactly be covert if you have a hot tub in your bathroom and room service knocking on your door every couple of minutes.”

“You could at least have gotten a nicer holo display in here. And maybe a subscription to one of those premium vid feeds.”

“Yes, because getting the Council to spring for my pornography habit is totally the sort of thing all us Spectres do.”

“I wasn’t suggesting the Fornax channel! I mean, there’s gotta be something you like to watch. I dunno – salarian soap operas or something!”

“Did you hear? Elnar just signed a mating contract with Vaseera! Yeah. I’m sure the Council would love to know I’m spending their credits to keep myself informed on _that_ sort of thing.”

“So you _do_ actually watch salarian soap operas.”

“Once! I got stuck in a dive on Omega for a few days and… you know what? I don’t have to explain myself to you! Get your head out of my refrgierator.”

He sighed petulantly. “Fine. It’s not like there’s anything in it, anyway. Except for that bottle of rancid kava juice. Oh, and a half-eaten E-Rats packet. Ugh.”

“… I was gonna finish that, I swear.”

“When? Last year? The mold coating the inside of this foil is starting to develop sentience. They’ll be working on space travel soon.”

“I can’t believe you’re complaining about the accommodations. I could’ve just let you find a hotel.”

“The only hotels around here are the kind where you rent rooms by the hour.”

She glared hard at him and then sighed and stood up. “I’m going to bed,” she said, making her proclamation to the entire room. Not that there was anyone else in it but the two of them. She started for the apartment’s tiny bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

She cocked her head at him. “I just said: I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, so you get my apartment blown up and you still get to take the bed.”

“It’s _my_ safehouse!”

“Murderous gunmen tried to kill me, and trashed my place because _you_ led them there! But sure, yeah, go ahead and take the bed. Totally fair.”

She scoffed. “Oh, boo hoo, my apartment’s more bullet holes than walls and furniture. I can’t believe you’re still whining about that.”

“It happened an hour ago!”

“Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor. And the last time I tried to take a nap on this couch, I was sore for a week.”

He clasped a hand to each side of his face and gasped in mock horror. “Oh, no. You have to suffer some mild discomfort as recompense for your part in utterly destroying my home. My heart bleeds. Hang on, let me just pull out this tiny violin...”

“Argh! All right! You can have the bed. Ok? Happy now? And I mean it, get your head out of my fridge!”

“How do you not have any food in here? How do you… live?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk. When we first started dating, there was never anything in _your_ fridge but beer and yogurt.”

“Beer is a substance essential for life. And as for yogurt? There… there is nothing wrong with yogurt,” he sputtered, indignantly. “It’s healthy. It’s nutritious. It’s great on stakeouts.” He folded his arms across his chest, confident he’d made his point.

But it didn’t have quite the effect he was hoping for. She rolled her eyes. Rolled her eyes, and let out an annoyed half-sigh, half-grunt. Goddess save her, how could one man – even if he was human – be so ludicrously aggravating?

...

Not to mention _right!_

Because, well, yogurt actually was pretty good on stakeouts.

Not that she was going to tell _him_ that.

“Look, we need to eat something. Or, at least _I_ need to eat something. My blood sugar’s gone on siesta. And, you know, the dinner I made kinda got riddled with bullet holes, so it’s not like we can eat that.”

“Then what do you suggest we do? Because I’m a worse cook than you are.”

“Well, that cafe on Level 8 that you like? They deliver.”

“I… I actually hate the food there. They use too much Yamak Sauce.”

“You like Yamak Sauce.”

“I hate Yamak Sauce.”

“Are… are you kidding me right now? Is _everything_ I know about you a lie?”

She ignored that. “And, anyway, you really think delivery is a good idea? What did I just say about safehouses? Nobody is supposed to know about this place. You do not want a chatty volus delivering pizza to your doorstep when you’re supposed to be in hiding.”

“Well, then one of us is going to have to go get us food.”

“Alternatively, you could stop being a whiny child.”

Just then, his stomach growled. Loudly. If she hadn’t been reasonably certain that humans didn’t actually have that kind of fine control over their digestive systems, she might’ve sworn he’d timed things that way on purpose.

“It’s either I eat something or we spend all night listening to my stomach do that.”

She sighed, balling her hands into fists in frustration. “I’ll go get you one of those- what do you call them? The things with ground bovine meat in between two slices of bread.”

He shot her a mildly confused look. “A cheeseburger?”

“Yes. That.”

“Yum. But you better get two. … or like… five.”


	10. Chapter 10

There were blast craters on Tuchanka that looked better than the little table in the apartment’s kitchenette. And that was saying something. When a random hole in the ground on a nightmarish, radioactive hell-world looked more inviting than your kitchen table, that was a pretty clear sign that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

A great battle had erupted upon the surface of that little table, and the casualties of said battle were everywhere. Discarded food wrappers lay next to greasy, crumpled-up paper napkins. A half-used packet of mayonnaise sat half submerged in a dipping cup full of some Frankenstein monster amalgamation of ketchup, mustard, and possibly sriracha. An unused set of disposable eating utensils sat neglected off to the side, their purpose unfulfilled. And that was just scratching the surface of the piles of waste and refuse that defiled the table’s faux-wood veneer.

Quinton slumped back in his chair and let out a small burp into his closed fist. Across from him, the apartment’s only other occupant cringed in mild disgust, but otherwise let the act pass without comment.

“Unnf. That hit the spot.” The human slowly ran his gaze over the table, his eyes that of a predator roaming the savanna in search of more prey. Eventually his scrutiny fell upon a small cardboard container. It was one of the few items on said table that had not been utterly decimated by savage and starving marauders. He gestured towards it. “Hey, you going to finish those fries?”

The asari glared at him and snatched the carton away, spiriting it into her lap and out of reach. There, she delicately plucked one of the little fried potato slivers free, and then slowly, with almost ponderous deliberation, popped it into her mouth. When he frowned, she sent him a small but baleful glare as she chewed, swallowed, and then reached out once more to take an almost dainty-looking sip from the enormous cup containing her chocolate milkshake.

She’d meant that stare to be intimidating, and under normal circumstances, it might just have done the job. But Quinton merely shrugged, clearly unfazed by the whole business. She wondered if this unusual situation they now found themselves in was to blame. Some people cracked under pressure. Others… well, they just simply became immune to pressure, strange and unlikely an idea as that seemed to be.

Either that, or the staggering amount of fat in all this food had done something catastrophic to his brain. It could’ve been either, honestly.

Whatever the case, he looked at her for a moment or two, shrugged again, and then took a giant slug of cola – large enough, in fact, to drain the remainder of the cup’s contents. He then spent a good twenty seconds or so continuing to slurp noisily. She glared at him again, mildly stunned at just how terrible his table manners were now that he wasn’t actively trying to act “presentable” in front of her.

“Well, I feel better,” he said, ignoring her incredulous expression. “I told you, a good meal does wonders. Don’t you feel better?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she refused to admit, even to herself, that he’d been right. Again.

Also, she'd come to the conclusion that those “bacon cheeseburgers” were preposterously tasty. And she would never admit that to anyone. Ever. That was a secret she would take to her grave.

Apparently, Quinton had expected this level of responsiveness – that is to say, utter non-responsiveness, and sighed softly. Let no one say he hadn’t at least _tried_ to break the ice between them a little. “All right, whatever. Anyway, _now_ it’s bedtime. And since you were so nice in buying dinner, I’ll even take the couch.”

“No, you can have the bed.” The words were halfway out of her mouth almost before she even realized she’d started speaking. And even as her lips finished the sentence, she was wondering just what the hell she was thinking in making such an offer. It was her apartment. And while Quinton could conceivably be considered a “guest,” she was still pretty sure that standard cultural mores regarding hospitality weren’t really too applicable in this case.

“… I can?”

She should have walked it back. She doubted he’d have it in him to argue with her about it.

But she didn’t.

“… yeah.”

He was clearly confused. She could tell from the way his brow furrowed and the bridge of his nose crinkled up. It was that look she’d seen on his face a bunch of times: confusion, but also this pressing need to puzzle out this thing – whatever it was – that was right in front of his face and made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

It was kind of cute, actually. It lent him this boyish charm that-

… that…

She cut that thread off _real_ quick.

“You get all cranky and make weird noises when you don’t sleep right.” At least that much was true. It was the perfect cover. No way he could fault her logic on that one, and no way he would suspect what she’d really been thinking.

Goddess, this was starting to irritate her.

“Look, I need you awake early tomorrow. I need your brain working. We have to fix this ridiculous mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, and as much as I hate to admit it, it’d probably go faster if I had your help. So I guess that means I have to sacrifice some sleep so that you won’t be completely useless to me in the morning.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

Goddess preserve her, had it really been necessary to talk to him like that? There was blunt, and there was cruel. She would never claim to be anything but the first one, but she did at least try to avoid drifting over the line into the second.

Usually.

She felt like she’d just kicked one of those cute, fluffy animals humans adored so much. With their pleasantly soft fur, and their waggling tails, and their tongues that hung eternally out of their mouths. Slobbery, obnoxious creatures, but damned if they weren’t utterly adorable.

What were they called again?

Ducks. That was it. Ducks.

She had just committed the conversational equivalent of kicking a duck.

They stared at each other for the space of a few moments, him bravely trying not to let it show on his face just how much what she’d said actually stung, and her not wanting to acknowledge her own pettiness and cruelty.

Eventually, he pulled himself together and sighed. “Seriously, though, are you sure?”

For Quinton, these things were like scabs. He couldn’t resist picking at them. He knew he should just “take the win.” She’d made the offer, he should take her up on it. For most people, it didn’t need to be any more complicated than that.

But then again, he wasn’t most people. There were reasons why police work suited him so, and one of those reasons was an insatiable curiosity that absolutely refused to content itself with half-truths like the one right in front of him now. That old saying about curiosity killing the feline was sage advice, but it was advice he almost always ignored. “Because I know what I said about my apartment and all, but-”

“It’s _fine,_” she insisted.

“It’s just… I mean, there’s another option.”

“What are you talking about? What other option?”

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, I’ve seen your bed. It… it’s not all _that_ big, but-”

Her eyes went wide and she held up a hand as if to shield herself from the oncoming insanity. “Ok, stop right there. Have you lost your mind?”

He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting _that._ For crying out loud, I’m not even sure I like you anymore. Being lied to tends to wreck a person’s opinion of someone.”

Now it was her turn to disguise how much that off-handed comment had hurt.

She didn’t like this game. Deep down, she might just have been willing to admit that it was only fair: that he get in a shot of his own after she’d run her mouth the way she had.

But even so – did _not_ like this game. Not at all.

“I’m just saying, it’s a big enough bed,” he continued, oblivious to her musings. He held his arms wide apart to illustrate his point. “There’s room. And we’re two rational, mature adults. Maybe.”

“Says the man who had an enormous shelf in his living room dedicated to dolls.”

“Action figures. And you said you liked them.”

“I said lots of things.”

Damn it all, what had gotten into her? Now she was just being childish. And yet, even though she knew she was acting bratty, she couldn’t make herself stop. At this point, she wasn’t sure what, short of sealing her mouth permanently closed with an arc welder, would shut her up. She bit down on her tongue, pursed her lips together. Would that be good enough? She certainly hoped so.

And even then, she knew that was she was taking the coward’s way out. She owed him an apology.

Not that she could bring herself to do that, either.

“Anyway, thanks for reminding me that there’s nothing left of my collection now, but dust and sadness.” He sighed sadly. “Look, all I’m trying to say is that two people can share a bed without there having to be anything… um… naughty… going on. Like, we could sleep head-to-toe.”

“ ‘Head-to-’ What does that even mean?”

“You know, you have your head at one end of the bed, I have my head at the other.”

Her head tilted slightly to the side as she gave him a look that was more than just “skeptical.” “I realize that even after having slept with you, I’m not an expert on human anatomy, but I’m pretty sure that won’t help anything. All the important bits would still be lined up.”

He was about to object. There was established precedent that the “head-to-toe” method worked.

Wasn’t there?

“Um… now that you mention it… maybe you’re right. It… it doesn’t really make any sense. Uh… ok, then, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Good idea.”

And that should have been it – should have been the end of this particular discussion. But he’d never been very good at letting things go. She hadn’t known him for very long, but that was one thing she’d figured out very early in their relationship. Which was why she was not at all surprised when, after a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, he frowned and spoke up again. “Look, it’s just that it _is_ your bed, and your apartment. And… and I feel bad kicking you out of your own bed. That’s all.”

She gave him a brief nod. “Thank you. I mean it. That’s nice of you. And… and I guess if we’re being fair, well… I suppose you’re right: it is kind of my fault your place got trashed. And that’s why I’m offering you the bed. I can’t resurrect your action figure collection, but I can at least make sure you get a half-decent night’s sleep, y’know?”

“I appreciate that. But seriously, why can’t we just share? I’ll stay on my side, you stay on yours. It’s big enough. I mean, it’s like twice as big as mine was, and we fit just fine.”

“Because I was pretty much right on top of you.” She smirked. “Sometimes literally.”

The blush that suddenly lit up his cheeks was absolutely precious. She pretended not to see it. Wouldn’t do to embarrass him any further.

“Anyway, that’s why your idea won’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

“You like to cuddle, Quin. You _really_ like to cuddle.”

His face dropped like a newly hatched bird plummeting out of the nest. “… oh. Another thing I do that gets on your nerves, huh?”

“Well… n-no.” Wait… had her voice just trembled for a second, there? And why did _her_ cheeks suddenly feel warm? “I, uh… no, the cuddles were ok. It’s just… you know… we-”

He grumbled softly under his breath. “No, I understand. We’re not really on cuddling terms, anymore. Agreed. But I still think this could work. How about we just put a pillow between us?”

A pillow? What was a stupid pillow going to do? She cocked her head at him in mild disbelief. “You do remember I like to stretch out when I sleep.”

He gave a little, amused snort. “Believe me, I know. The whole of Zakera Ward takes up less room than you do.”

“Ok, genius, so how’s your little pillow idea going to stop your cuddlebug tendencies and my… urban sprawl?”

“We use more than just one. Obviously.” He picked up one of the tattered cushions that decorated her couch. “You’ve got enough of these right here to make a fort, and all we need is a single wall.”

*It’ll never work,* she was tempted to say. But the truth was, she was tired. Tired of arguing, tired of this whole awkward business, tired of just… everything. She knew she was starting to sound like a petulant child being told she couldn’t have dessert yet because it would spoil her dinner, but she couldn’t help herself. She was absolutely exhausted, both physically and mentally. “Don’t blame me if this doesn’t work.”

He poked his tongue out at her. “Oh, yes, ma’am, don’t you worry about that. I’ll take full responsibility for any weirdness that might ensue if we wake up in the middle of the night with you squeezing my ass or something.”

She scoffed and stuck her own tongue right back out at him. Another one of those strange human gestures she found actually conveyed her feelings surprisingly well. “What ass would that be, again?”

He pouted. “Now you’re just being mean.”


End file.
